Three Sheets to the Wind

I am sooooooooo behind in documenting our first foray into camping as a couple, because, you know, life happens. And if you’ve been keeping up, life has been kind of shitting on me recently. So I really just never sat down to finish writing about our camping trip from last summer.

Which is a damn shame, because I really should have documented everything while it was fresh in my mind. Luckily however, it really wasn’t THAT long ago, and the concussion was minor enough (we’ll get to that later) that I have retained most memories from this little adventure. So I am here to share with you what essentially qualifies as my second camping trip EVER.

If you’re not already familiar with my disastrous camping history, you should be. I am what you would call an “indoor girl.” I need makeup, an outlet for my curling iron, air conditioning, and although I kind of thought this went without saying – indoor plumbing.

So when Gil told me one of his best friends was getting married in the mountains and it was going to be a “camping wedding” and that we would LITERALLY be sleeping outside on the ground, this was my face:

But I am nothing if not a trooper. And a damn good girlfriend. Since I knew it was important to him, I faked a smile, said it sounded like an adventure and that I was willing to give camping a second chance. And I was told there would be a bathroom and indoor plumbing somewhere on the camp site, and NO WILD BOARS, so I figured I’d survive.

So Gil, being a good boyfriend, went to a camping store to get a battery powered blow up mattress that would fit in the bed of his dad’s truck that we were borrowing. He had a truck tent (that’s a thing? and I know those words now? what??), that fit on the bed of the truck, so it seemed as close to “glamping” as I was going to get.

But I want to make one thing really clear – he didn’t just do it to be a considerate partner. I mean, he is, and that’s part of it. But REALLY, he just didn’t want to hear me squawking at him the whole time and this was his preemptive strike against it. Seriously, sometimes when I get on a tear about something he just caws at me like a giant bird. HE LITERALLY SQUAWKS AT ME UNTIL HE DROWNS ME OUT. So let’s be really real – he was trying to placate my inner bird-woman.

So away we went. To a camping wedding. And… it was kind of amazing. His friends who were getting married are pretty much the most amazing people on the planet and have the rare ability to make everyone they meet feel incredibly special. They had all their friends and family in one place, and it was one of those weddings where there was so much love it was palpable. Even the bride’s broken leg couldn’t dampen the excitement and activity going on.

Day one was essentially the rehearsal dinner and a huge party. Oh, did I not mention this was an entire weekend of camping, not just one night?

With the party in full swing and what basically amounts to a huge reunion of Gil’s friends, we stayed up well into the night. Gil decided there wasn’t actually enough room for both of us to be comfortable in the bed of the truck, without running the risk of one of us rolling over and falling into the cavern between the airbed and the side of the truck. So he very gallantly slept on the ground in a tent and gave me full reign of the truck.

It wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be. Until I woke up in the middle of the night and had to pee. Real bad. As I crawled out of the truck, I realized in this particular instance, I would have actually been better off if we’d really been camping in a more remote location, instead of surrounded by other cars and trucks and campers. I was not prepared to just fully drop trow since I had no idea who might be walking around and I do try to limit full on flashing people until at least the second or third time we meet.

And remember – there was a bathroom. It was just up a hill from where we were all camping. Which in the light of day looks like no big deal. But in the middle of the night when you’re half awake and regretting those margaritas from earlier…. well, it may as well be Everest.

But I survived, and we made into the wedding day relatively unscathed. And then I realized I had to get ready for a wedding. In a truck. In the woods.

Turns out, there was actually a shower inside the building where the bathroom was. But the walls surrounding the shower? Glass. Remember my rule about flashing?

I had somehow not anticipated the need for a bathing suit, so I made my way into the bathroom where I gave myself a quick whore’s bath at the sink, and patted myself on the back for bringing dry shampoo. I have to admit, we cleaned up pretty well.

And the wedding was flawless. The ceremony was back on the property under the trees, and we got to watch two of the most genuine people I’ve ever met pledge their love to one another. Totally worth it.

From there, it was time for another party! I’m getting a little old for this whole two nights in a row business, but if the bride could get out on the dance floor and bust a move even in her cast, I had no excuses.

But the thing is, dancing is not one of my gifts. I’m not what you would consider graceful. I fall a lot. I trip over my own feet. I lack rhythm completely. But as we stood there watching a group of his friends go through what was essentially a choreographed dance they had perfected over all their years of partying together, I felt a little… inspired.

To be clear, we will never be the couple with the choreographed moves on the dance floor. Gil is actually a pretty good dancer but I’m more of what you’d call a flailer. I flail. Or shake my boobs. Those are my only moves. So I dragged him out on the dance floor and commenced the most graceful flail I could muster. We were both pretty into the song at that point, and since we have an ongoing competition in our relationship over who has the better hair (he’s been growing his out since I met him), we were both whipping our hair pretty aggressively.

But I’m 5’4″. He’s 6’3″. He’s also a long time heavy metal concertgoer. He’s used to mosh pits and has what I am now convinced is literally the thickest skull in the world. Because as I was coming up, he was coming down, and his forehead cracked down directly on the top of my head.

As it happened, one of Gil’s best friend’s is an EMT and his girlfriend is a nurse, so when the world was still spinning a few minutes later, I knew I had back up if I needed it. I didn’t, but I did wind up with a killer headache that had me turning in early, leaving Gil to party on into the night. Which is kind of shame, because it sounds like things really got going after that. At one point in the night, I could hear someone in the tent next to our truck having sex, which if I recall correctly, is essentially the whole point of a wedding when you’re single, so hooray for them!

When dawn broke, there were a few sheepish faces and a couple quick getaways, and I think we were all in desperate need of a shower and a nap. But at the end of the day, it was one of the best weddings I’ve ever been to. I would do it again in a heartbeat. Only next time my request will include no wild boars AND no concussions.

Like this:

She threw up in my hand. SHE THREW UP IN MY HAND. I had to look down again to make sure… was this real life? Yup, that was vomit, in my hand. I wasn’t babysitting one of my friends’ new babies (I don’t think I’ll ever be on the top of the list for that favor) or helping out a friend with food poisoning – I was in the hotel room of a forty-something senior vice president of a large national advertising firm, putting her to bed after she consumed her body weight in red wine.

OK, let me back up. This was a few years ago, but it’s one of those moments in your life you just don’t forget – no matter how hard you try, you can’t forget it. And honestly, the story is great party fodder so I don’t know that I’d really want to forget it anyway.

But to put this story in context, you need to know a few things first. One, I work in tech sales. I have for most of my adult career. Two, I am a pretty good go-to person in high stress situations. Typically I can get things done and have been told I can be a bulldozer, which I choose to take as a compliment, whether it was meant that way or not. And three (and most importantly), alcohol and sales go together like peanut butter and jelly. If peanut butter could embarrass you in front of your co-workers and make you vomit on your shoes without noticing.

And I think there is a lot of boozing that happens in the human resources industry in particular. Maybe it’s because they have to put up with so much shit during the day that they just need something to take the edge off – kind of like how I imagine most moms must just have a constant supply of wine on hand. In either case, you can’t really blame them. Anyway, I’ve worked for a few different companies that sold into HR, and the conferences were crazier that most of the frat parties I attended in college. You have to know what you’re getting into. You have to be prepared.

In my first tech sales job in the Bay Area, I was not. I wasn’t prepared guys. I worked in the coffee and tea industry in my early twenties, selling high end teapots and mugs. There were six of us. We had no money. We couldn’t even afford Diet Coke, let alone alcohol. We never hosted any customer events. There was no “culture” to speak of. It was a different world.

But in my first real sales job in the Silicon Valley, I learned very quickly part of the deal was socializing with the entire sales organization and knocking back a few drinks with them. Team events, kickoff meetings, happy hours, customer dinners. There was always something. But the most debauchery I ever witnessed was at the HR industry conferences, which we would attend with one primary goal: schmoozing our customers. It was at just such a conference where our story really begins my friends.

I was in Las Vegas with a group of co-workers for a large HR conference. Most of the attendees at the conference were married with kids, and this was an event they looked forward to all year. Not only were they in Vegas without their kids or spouses, but they were there on their company’s dime, usually in a hotel full of other people in exactly the same situation. It’s basically freshman year of college in the dorm, where kids are finally away from their parents for the first time and have easy access to booze and each other – it’s a shit show.

One of the nights we were there, we hosted a VERY fancy cocktail hour and dinner for some of our larger customers and partners. We had a private room in a 5 star restaurant and an open bar. It was a formal dinner, and actually the first time in my 25 years I’d been to a place with a choreographed wait staff – one waiter for every person at the table, all working in unison to create a beautiful display, like that scene from Beauty and the Beast where all the plates come to life. I didn’t even know that was a thing. It was fancy as fuck and a little intimidating. I was doing my best to sound sophisticated while talking shop with our customers but little did I know, sophistication was not the theme that night.

One of our partners, a senior vice president of a national advertising agency, had already clearly had a few before we all gathered at the restaurant. And before we go any further in this little adventure, keep in mind some of the customers at dinner were her customers too.

I watched her go through multiple glasses of red wine over appetizers. I didn’t think too much of it though – like I said, there is always quite a bit of booze flowing at these things. She was flirting with the VP of a major hospital to her right, who was clearly uninterested in anything but business with this woman. Not only were they both married, but the hospital was a customer of this advertising agency. Frankly, I was kind of enjoying the show and only marginally trying to run interference – he was our customer too so I didn’t want him to be uncomfortable.

I turned to talk to my own VP across the table when out of my periphery, I saw her lean over to him and in slow motion, like a car crash with smeared lipstick, she shoved her tongue into his ear. At the dinner table. In front of everyone. Holy shit. He must have had some experience with hammered 45 year old women, because he handled it like a champ. He disentangled her and immediately engaged the rest of the table in conversation to distract her. She was a persistent little beaver though, and eventually he excused himself to the other end of the table. Dinner hadn’t even been served yet.

When it was, she immediately spilled red wine all over her $60 steak and her white pants and got into a tug of war with the waiter trying to clear it. “I can eat it out of the wine!!” she protested. I really didn’t know whether to laugh or leap up to try and help her poor waiter.

This VP wasn’t actually my customer and I had no prior relationship with her, but luckily our advertising rep who did was at the dinner as well and she finally took Drunky McTongue to the bathroom to compose herself and clean up. The rest of us politely pretended it hadn’t happened and continued on with dinner. Until I felt a frantic tapping on my shoulder and my co-worker desperately whispering that she needed my assistance in the bathroom. Fuck.

Once I got into the bathroom I saw that she had locked herself in a stall and was refusing to come out. I could see through the crack that she was practically passed out. I immediately started trying to put together a game plan. I couldn’t crawl under the stall door because A) I’m not a small girl and B) Those fancy 5 star bathroom doors went all the way to the ground. The only way in was up. I took off my heels and stood on the toilet in the next stall so I could see her and thought, You have got to be kidding me… I am going to have to scale this wall in a cocktail dress. They do not pay me enough for this shit.

Suddenly I had an idea though – I told her McDreamy from the hospital was still at dinner and was waiting to go get a drink with her. BAM! Door unlocked. I’m a genius. I led her out to a table in the back room and pulled my own VP into the mix. We had to figure out how to get her out – we could NOT take her through the main part of the restaurant. So while he went to talk to the kitchen staff about dragging her out the back way, I tried to get her to drink some water and eat some bread. She was face down on the linen table cloth.

When I finally got her to look at me, she stared at me blankly and then slurred, “You drugged me!” Awesome. I should have just left her there. But I found her purse, and dug through for her room key. She was staying a hotel down the strip. Myself, my VP and my coworker essentially carried her out and caught a cab to her hotel. Once we got there, my VP looked at me and said he didn’t think it was a good idea for him to be in her hotel room. Based on her behavior at dinner and her apparent propensity for making wild accusations, I agreed. But that just left me and my coworker who, frankly, was completely overwhelmed with the situation.

We got her to her room and I sat her on the bed and forced her to drink some water. Once I could establish she wasn’t going to hurt herself or try to go find the bar, I planned to put her to bed in her clothes and get the hell out of there. Her eyes started to clear up a bit and she told us she was feeling better. I grabbed the trash can from the bathroom just for good measure. As I walked up with the trash can and gestured to my coworker for something, the senior VP of a national advertising agency chose that moment to throw up. In. My. Hand.

I never got an apology from her, and somehow, she didn’t lose her job. But a couple weeks later, I did get a gift and a note thanking me for helping her when she had a “bad reaction to something at dinner.”

It was a pink Las Vegas shot glass with the $3.99 price tag still attached.

Like this:

You know what else I love? I love room service, big fluffy beds made by other people, ocean views, bathrooms that magically clean themselves and swim up bars. I am what you would consider a resort-friendly kind of girl.

I make no apologies about it. I like what I like. And when I travel, I am of the mindset of “Hey, if I’m going to be spending X dollars anyway, I may as well spend 10-20% more and get something AMAZING.” It’s the saleswoman in me selling myself… I’m kind of an easy mark. So when someone suggests a trip to Tahoe or Big Sur, I’m all about it but I envision a cabin or luxury resort with day hikes – not sleeping on the ground.

I have a relatively strong aversion to camping, but it’s not JUST because I’m what some people (I’m looking at you Gil) consider “high maintenance.” No, it’s deeper than that guys. I have emotional camping scars. And you know what they say…. you’re only as sick as your secrets. Your horrible, horrible, camping secrets.

So I’ve decided today’s the day I’m going to share them. Partly because I need to work through my feelings about camping so I can convince myself to try it again (my boyfriend of almost 2 years loves it, and we’ve done it a total of zero times). And partly because my only real camping story is actually worth sharing.

But let me back up for a second. Growing up, camping was not something I was ever exposed to. In this world, there are “camping families” and “non-camping families.” We were definitely a non-camping family. We spent plenty of time outside and liked to explore and do outdoor activities, but we preferred to poop inside, you know?

I’ve been camping a grand total of twice in my life so far. Neither have really warmed me up to the whole idea yet. And frankly the second time may not even count… my friends were at a campsite at the beach and I joined them and wound up sleeping in my car because it was so windy.

But the first and really only actual camping experience I have…. well, it left a mark. It has been burned into my brain. My soul. My eyeballs. I HAVE TO TALK ABOUT IT. If for no other reason, than to ease this heavy burden I’ve been carrying. And to illustrate the real source of my camping aversion. To prove it’s NOT just because I think I’m too good to poop in the ground. (I do think that, I totally do.)

Deep breaths… here it goes. My first camping experience happened when I was 18. I was what you might refer to as a bona fide HOT MESS. My brother was sick and I was kind of in a tailspin, and 18 is a great age to be an irresponsible asshole anyway, so the camping trip involved way more whiskey than it should have. I went with my friend Raena, her loser boyfriend (I can say that because she totally dumped him later… don’t worry it’s not like that’s who she wound up with) and his loser friend. We all had great taste in men back then.

The emotional baggage aside, what I remember most about that trip is what Raena and I still refer to as the “death hike.” You know, when 4 hungover 18 year olds decide to head out on an 8 mile round-trip hike in 90+ degree heat to a swimming hole with no food, minimal water and generally no good sense whatsoever.

We literally almost didn’t make it back. As in, the guys took off (told you, GREAT taste in men back then) and Raena and I staggered along the completely deserted trail on our own, making all kinds of promises to the universe or God or whoever we thought might be able to get us out of this one. Promising to shape up if we could just get a goddamn ride back to camp.

At one point, I laid down on the side of the trail, and told my girlfriend to go on without me…. SAVE YOURSELF! I implored. Actually it was more like “find someone with a freaking truck and send them back for me… I’m going to lay here and wait for someone to rescue me because I am not cut out for this shit.” I distinctly remember laying in the dirt, cheek full on in a dirt pile, watching a spider crawl up my leg, too dehydrated and exhausted to move or care, and all I could think about was how badly I wanted an ice cold Fresca and air conditioning. And to never go camping again.

Turns out, my plan wasn’t as solid as Raena’s. She DID find someone with a truck to give her a ride back, while I was laying in the dirt hallucinating about Fresca. I’m not totally clear on why he never came for me, but he didn’t and at some point I managed to pick myself up out of the dirt and soldier on. Somehow I eventually made my way back to our campsite, thinking this had to be the worst camping trip ever. I mean, come on. It doesn’t get much worse than that.

Until a WILD BOAR attacked our campsite that night. Seriously. We jumped into the bed of Raena’s truck, screaming like lunatics as this beast of an animal went to town on the campsite. That’s it, that was our whole line of defense. No guns, no knowledge of boars, nothing. After it tore through our stuff and disappeared back into the woods, the woman at the campsite next to ours came over with her dog presumably to see if we were OK. She was apparently camping with her husband, an Indian shaman of some sort.

She calmly informed us that she could talk to animals (yup) and had special powers (of course), so she had this on lock. She was going to talk to the boar to calm it down and make sure it didn’t bother us anymore. Then she disappeared into the woods with her dog to have a little chat with the boar. TO HAVE A CHAT WITH THE WILD BOAR THAT HAD JUST TORN THROUGH OUR CAMPSITE.

Now before you ask, no, we were not tripping on acid. But I can’t say the same for her. We heard her chanting and yelling and then heard her dog yelping and barking, and noises I now know are what a boar attacking a dog sound like.

We stared at each other, mouths open, convinced this crazy lady and her dog were boar meat. Miraculously, she came walking back out and told us she’d taken care of it. And to be fair, the boar left us alone after that, so who knows? Maybe she talked some sense into it.

She wasn’t done though. Oh no. She decided to join us at our fire and proceeded to read our futures. Totally normal camping neighbor etiquette and behavior, right? After letting us know one of our friends had “special powers” too and needed us to watch over her, she informed me I would live in many different places, and have children I didn’t know about with different men.

Wait, pause. I might have skipped a few health classes along the way, but I’m pretty sure it’s not the woman who finds out she has a kid years after a drunken hookup in the back of an Explorer. Even if you don’t know you’re pregnant (thanks, “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant” for educating me about how many women this ACTUALLY happens to), you sure as shit notice when a HUMAN BEING comes out of your vagina. But I digress.

Anyway, after “looking into our futures” she eventually had to return to her own campsite, because her husband was screaming for her and sounded pretty pissed. Maybe he had just found out about one of her secret children, I’m not sure. After a few more shots of whiskey (I mean how can you not be drinking during an experience like that?) we eventually all passed out. When we woke up the next morning and said hello to our crazy neighbor and potential boar-whisperer, she just looked at us blankly. She had no clue who we were. NONE.

I SWEAR TO FRESCA, we were not the ones tripping balls because we all remembered it exactly the same the next morning. But at that point, I was ready to be done camping. Basically forever.

Fast forward 13 years, and that’s pretty much held up. No more camping. But guys, it might be time. It might be time to give it another shot. I might be ready. But if anyone so much as mentions anything about a boar, I’m out.

Like this:

This is not a phrase every girl dreams of saying one day. I however, am not like most girls. Wait, that implies I dreamed of saying it… that’s not true, but my nipple has made an appearance in some professional wedding photos. It might be on video somewhere too, who knows.

About 5 years ago, my best friend from college got married. I was so excited for her. She and her college sweetheart were perfect for each other – I even had a hand in shoving them together the first night they met. I like to think of myself as a smooth wing-woman and matchmaker but mostly I was tipsy and loud and physically cornered them together until it was palpably awkward. But it worked out, and a few years later they decided to tie the knot.

This was a decent sized affair and relatively formal, although not black-tie. And I was the Maid of Honor. But without the horrible dress or having to stand up next to them. Having experienced what it was like to be a bridesmaid and how quickly things could unravel, she’d wisely opted to avoid all the drama and just have me wear what I wanted, sit where I wanted and give a speech at the reception. No muss, no fuss.

And I will say this – it was a flawlessly executed wedding at a country club and the reception was a hell of a party. I’ve been to somewhere between 20 and 30 weddings in the last 7 or 8 years and this one stands out. And not just because of my nipple, but we’re getting to that.

Anyhow, I was seated with another friend from college and some of the bride’s friends from work and I’d say our table would be considered one of the single and rowdy variety. Post-wedding parties were being planned, champagne was being spilled, and dance moves were getting… interesting. I had purposely abstained from the cocktails to make sure my speech went smoothly, and once that was over I figured I could relax for the rest of the night.

And then… the announcement of death. The one I have come to loathe over the years – the bouquet toss. It used to just be an annoyance since I don’t really get into a lot of wedding traditions, but I get that some people are into it and I could usually be convinced to get out on the floor. But this particular experience has helped fuel my hatred for it, and is the reason I now refuse to get sucked into the clawing cluster of women to fight for an arrangement of flowers I didn’t even get to pick out.

I would have just sat this one out and gleefully watched all the drunk single girls fighting over the flowers like bargain shoppers on Black Friday, but as the Maid of Honor and the only woman from our table not on the dance floor, I was called out and begrudgingly made my way to the center of the room.

Now, I kid you not, one of the girls at my table was over 6 feet tall. The girl had some serious reach and we all knew she’d be able to pluck anything out of the sky before we even really knew what happened. So there we were, the seven of us lined up shoulder to shoulder with the Amazon in the middle, all eyes on us, every photographer poised to capture this moment in time forever. As I’m being jostled and trying to keep a smile on my face for the pictures, I realize that my vertically advanced table mate now has her arms stretched wide, essentially holding back the three women on either side of her. And in her champagne fueled attempt to jockey for position, she’s clutching at the rest of us. One of whom happens to be a 38DDD in a wrap dress.

Yup, in the midst of the flashbulbs and the bride and groom’s family and friends all looking on, I feel my dress being grabbed and ripped right off my boob. Nipple out. Full boob. Luckily I have pretty nice boobs, so I guess there are worse things, but STILL. I’m not even sure exactly how she managed it, but that was my cue. Like a lady, I re-situated my dress, tucked my boob back in and walked swiftly back to my seat for the champagne I’d left waiting for me. And wouldn’t you know it, she staggered back a couple minutes later, victorious and clutching her prize.

And that, dear friends, is why you will always find me conveniently in the bathroom or getting a drink whenever it’s time for the bouquet toss. I like to expose my nipples on my own terms.